Best Sports Poems Iv
The best sports poems by Michael R. Burch, Part IV
King Henry the Great
by Michael R. Burch
Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!
No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch
"I'm young, I'm big-hearted,
but I'm just getting started."
I'm running my own race
at my own damn pace.
T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I'm A. J. Brown.
Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch
Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.
Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.
Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.
Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.
Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate...
and fly!
Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.
Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
'He's safe! '
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.
A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.
Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.
Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.
Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.
Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.
The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch
If you're not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson's magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe's, at seven;
or if you're a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you're shoeless
because you're also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you're less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you're better at drinking
than at dieting and slinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi's
your triumphs are really your tragedies...
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society'll proclaim you a WINNER!
Copyright ©
Michael Burch
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